Farewellgiving

All good things must come to an end, even a Thanksgiving stay with the Muckers.  Although I admit it'll be nice to be back in a house where there's something other than turkey leftovers in the fridge.

Before we were allowed to escape wild Florida for civilised Texas, Christine and Vince insisted on a final jaunt out, this time to the iconic restaurant/music venue that is Skipper's Smokehouse.

If you can imagine a wooden music shack, miles from anywhere in the middle of the Florida swamps, with lichen hanging from the trees and a clientele still coming down from the 60s, you have a good idea of what this place is (even though it's in the middle of a wealthy Tampa suburb).  Throw in a Grateful Dead tribute band and a LOT of tie-die, and you have our Skipper's experience.  I enjoyed the strange situation of not being the worst dancer there, thanks to being in control of my limbs, and some judicious use of the free hula-hoops offered at the side of the stage.

The next morning we said our farewells and got back on the road for the small matter of a 14-hour drive home.  We stopped overnight in Mississippi because...well, why not?  It all went very smoothly, and I remain relieved that the one-hour-screen-time-a-day rule is invalid in cars, which means Pete enjoys time driving more than being at home, forced to play with Mummy and Daddy.  Kids these days, eh?

Many many thanks again to C,V,C,JJ and Jim and Jean for another fantastic celebration of that happy time when America was still owned by Britain.  See you next year!

I'm telling you man, Jerry was there!

Some of these folks had genuinely seen the 60s.

They played both kinds of music: prog and rock.

On the way home.

Not the Mississippi, but a tributary.  So small!

Shrimp.

Don't feed the alligators...any of your limbs.

A final one for the road.

Sponge hunters

In the post-Thanksgiving glow/indigestion, what can a family do?  Not go Black Friday sales shopping at 4am, certainly.  Eat turkey and stuffing sandwiches, definitely.  But what about entertainment?  Luckily for us, the Muckers live a short drive away from Tarpon Springs: the sponge capital of the world.

While this news left me looking forward to a nice Victoria sandwich, it soon became clear that they were talking about sea sponges, those things you used to see in bathrooms in the 1970s.  Well, the sponge trade is still going strong in Tarpon, where most people speak Greek because in 1905 an entrepreneur started recruiting Europe's best sponge divers and that's where they come from.

One of my favourite things about America is that you get these places that have their "thing", and then they lean into that as far as they can.  There's the town in California called Solvang where everything is Danish.  Then there's the guy in Arizona who bought London Bridge and decided to build a whole city around it.  In Tarpon Springs, every shop sells sponges and knock-off Greek statues, and every restaurant serves you moussaka and spanakopita, and lets you wash it down with ouzo.  It made me wonder what the local chamber of commerce meetings are like.

But, when in Greece...so we quickly boarded a boat to go and watch a (ridiculously good-looking) diver put on an ancient diving suit, jump into the muddy waters, and return with a sponge on a fork.  And yes, they did refer to him as a "sponge hunter", which seemed a bit dramatic given that sponges attach themselves to a rock and spend their whole life sitting there, unmoving.

I learned some things.  There are only five types of sponge that have any commercial use.  Sponges can live up to 200 years.  Sponges can be used as plant pots.  Most distressingly, having been told by Christine that sponges are plants and they only harvest the top bit so that they grow back, it turns out that sponges are animals, and the spongey bit is actually their desiccated skeleton!  Suddenly I'm washing myself with someone's dead body!!  I will use this as another excuse to skip baths.

After our trip we met up with the rest of the Mucker party at a Greek restaurant and enjoyed gyros and Greek salad, then treated each child to a sponge.  To wash with, not to eat.  I had a friend who swallowed a sponge.  The doctor said he'll be fine, but he can't stop drinking water!  Hahahaa...

Next generation of sponge hunter.

The captain, who may have been one of the original immigrants from 1905.

Sponge diver.

He's hunted a sponge!

Returning to the boat with his trophy.

This is a sponge, before it's DRIED TO DEATH.

 Apprentice.

The five types of commercial sponge.

Sponge selfie!

Girl with sponge.

Talking turkey

Like every year, it was Thanksgiving again, when we celebrate the pilgrims almost starving by doing the opposite.  And our pilgrimage ended as we arrived at the Muckers' new house, although I imagine in 1621 they didn't have a hot tub or multiple TVs to keep all adults and children happy.

Our drive along the Florida panhandle took us through the destruction left by Hurricane Michael, and it was jaw-dropping.  Seeing everything blown around on the news is one thing, but driving through whole forests with every tree snapped off at 20-feet, past the twisted metal of highway signs and corrugated roofs, reinforced my understanding that when you're told to evacuate you probably should.

Thankfully, down in Tampa Bay everything was peaceful and sunny and we received the time-honoured Mucker welcome: a hug, a beer placed in your hand, and then lots of insults and humiliation.  It's so comforting that even in this divided country some things stay the same.  Jim and Jean had come over from Austin (flying, because they're a lot cleverer than us) so it was a full house...and soon after a very full belly.

What's the word for a collection of monsters?

It's Florida, it's the day before Thanksgiving, so it's beach time.  Even though the temperature was more Tynemouth than Tampa.

Hannah and Christine brave the cold waters.

Claire is less convinced.

Some stunning sand castle architecture from the firm Davies & Davies.

Come to the Muckers for the topless cocktail waitresses!

Thanksgiving morning, and the kitchen is already buzzing (I stayed away - no need to add to the crowd).

Oh look, more booze!

Just like the pilgrims enjoyed.

Thanksgiving can be a tiring time.

 The unsinkable Mrs Davies!

Panhandling

It's Thanksgiving, when tradition dictates that we go to see some Muckers.  Last year we made it up to Fort Worth to see Muckers senior, so this time we thought it was only right to head to see the juniors, who have recently moved to Florida.

Florida is right by Texas!  With only Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama inbetween, a short 14-hour drive.  So we decided to break up the journey by stopping half-way.  Would you know that half-way to Florida is also Florida, due to a big chunk of it stretching west in a "panhandle" along the coast?  It's even in a different timezone than the bit that everyone knows is Florida!  So that's where we stopped, in Fort Walton Beach.

Our nearest beach to Houston is Galveston, which while lovely is a little...oily.  Out this way the sea is crystal clear with white sand the consistency of fine sugar.  Not even the socks I'm wearing with my sandals will keep it out.  Hannah and Pete love it, of course, and have been pinging between the beach and the hotel's swimming pools (a little nippy, as is it November).

Keeping up with the theme of traditions, Fort Walton Beach is an old-school holiday town.  We took advantage by enjoying the classic holiday activity of mini golf, although this one had massive robotic dinosaurs that roared at you.  Pete jumped out of his skin more than once, and perhaps it would have been nicer if his parents didn't laugh so much.

We complete our journey down to Tampa tomorrow, into Florida proper, where traditions will continue: lots of food, lots of drink, and an ugly falling out about politics around the family table at Thanksgiving...

A stop for lunch in Mobile, Alabama, at Pete's Panini's.

Hmm.

Into the hotel, then straight into the (heated) outdoor pool.

You know it's holiday time when you get these, and Pete as an only child will never know the negotiation/violence with siblings over who gets what.

Early morning on the beach.

What my beach holidays all look like.

Almost just like Galveston...

A local, who was trying to snaffle every fish the fishermen on the pier pulled in.

Off to mini golf.

Before it got scary.

Par 4.

Who won?  Daddy.

Another local.

A final walk along the beach before hitting the road again tomorrow.

Intense

It may not be obvious, but I do like telling people how tough, worldly, and generally up-together us Brits are (even when our own government tries to prove the opposite).  This is exactly what I've been doing in the run up to Pete's annual school camp.  Other parents have been loudly worrying about the dire weather forecast, and I've laughed and reminded them that camping is supposed to be in the rain, and that it's still going to be warmer than any British summer.  They have found me amusing and instructive.

But then the weekend arrived, and it was time to put my money where my mouth is and actually go camping.  So I grumpily packed the Fiesta to the roof and set off to Double Lake Recreation Area, an hour north.

The campsite was in a beautiful lakeside spot, in the middle of a forest that makes it seem far more remote than it is (well, 35 minutes to the nearest Starbucks, so genuinely pretty remote).  We picked a fine spot, far away from everyone else in another illustration of British warmth, and set up.

And it was COLD.  It's been a long time since I wore five layers at once, but even that didn't keep all the nippy air away from my delicate skin.  Pete and his Kindergarten pals didn't seem to notice at all, and had to be reminded on more than one occasion not to run around in just their socks.

Then came the rain, and I thought: maybe I did enough of this when I was young.  Maybe camping in California in the summer is now my thing.  But I adopted a stiff upper lip, sulked off to collect some wood, and a couple of hours later had a roaring fire going.  Once a Cub Scout, always a Cub Scout.

As I repacked the car on Sunday I reflected that I'd just spent two nights under canvas, which surely qualifies me for some kind of award.  Only around 60 of the 130 people who had booked turned up, so I was in the top 50% at least.  "When can we go camping again?" asked Pete as I erected the tents in the garage to dry them out.  I communicated my reticence with silent disapproval and inscrutable sullenness, and nothing is more British than that.

Deep roots in Texas now.

How to survive any outdoor experience.

Pete's friend Elena joined us for dinner on the first night.

 The view from my camping chair.

First, and not the last, batch of s'mores.

Hannah makes oatmeal on Saturday morning.

And that, my friends, is a graded woodpile #scouting !!

A walk around the lake.

If I hadn't started a fire, we'd have all died from hypothermia!

Next generation of pyromaniacs.

One final s'more.

Ford Fiestas - so roomy!  But let's give it a few months before we do this again...